She was at once very simple and very practical; she had healthy tastes
which she desired to gratify, and a deliberate mind which instructed her
how far she might do so. Once in her life those had played her false, when
they told her that the pity she had for Ingram was love, and the need he
had for possession of her was her own need to give it him. She had been
bitterly mistaken, and was now so weary with herself that she seemed to
have no desire in the world but that of sleep. Tristan and Isolde,
drowning soul and body in music which made love, and love which was the
heart of music, were not to be thought of on this side of the grave. The
Fates had a sterner way for her. She was never to empty herself in a kiss
or to watch out the stars with Jack Senhouse. Homing in the carriage with
Lady Maria, she denied him, like Peter his Lord. "I know not the man."
Vaguely dreaming at her open window, under the fire-fretted roof of that
May night, she suddenly thought of him again--nay, knew him bodily there,
alone with her under the sky--and for the first time in her life felt his
eyes upon her, seeking of her what he had never dared to seek, and then
his arms about her, touching her as assuredly he had never dreamed to do.
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